


Repose

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreaming, Fluff, Love, M/M, Missing a Lover, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, pre-reunion. A moment of dreaming; Sherlock is waiting for morning to continue with his work. He misses John. </p>
<p>(Loosely connected to Empty Space & Something for the Pain.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repose

Sherlock woke up startled, clothes drenched in sweat, sticking to his skin. Even in his sleep he seldom forgot himself completely, but now he was disoriented, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. It wasn't dawn yet. It would be another couple of hours before he could slip out and melt away with the morning traffic. He had been dreaming of John. It had been so vivid he felt as if he could still trace John’s scent in the air. Sentiment playing tricks on senses. He closed his eyes, placed his palms on his face. John.

He had been away from London for nearly a month now and would go down to Spain next. The last time he'd seen John was outside the surgery. That’s all he went nowadays. He had looked miserable. That’s what he looked like nowadays. John. 

He went further. Back to a kiss. They had been outside on a murder scene. The sky was clear, but the autumn sun was not warm anymore. He had been bent over some leaves having walked a good five hundred yards away from the body and had taken out his magnifier, when suddenly John had pulled him up and kissed him deeply for a long time. The sun was blazing, a soft breeze as if lifting them above ground.  
“Sorry, I had to,” John had said. When he had just remained there grinning, elated, John had urged, “Go on then.” He had. 

There was more. Once, no, a hundred times. A hundred times he had been going mad with boredom and John had come over to him, taken his hands and placed them on his body. And he had studied John, learned him, immersed in him. And always, always, when finally catching his breath, coming back up, had felt that he’d only scratched the surface. That there was never enough he could know of John. Despite already knowing everything.

He forced himself out of that room in his mind palace. It was a sacred place. One where he didn't have the right to go to now. His mind had tricked him there, slipped away from his control, made him take refuge in his sleep. He didn't want to, couldn’t go back to those moments. It was too tempting, he would want to stay. They would pull him away from the task at hand. 

Instead he went wandering about his plans. Inspecting the steps he would take next, locating the evidence he would need to acquire to get back to John. It was a clear landscape ahead of him. He knew what he needed to do. 235 more days. He could do it. John would endure. His soldier, he could take it. He had to.

The outskirts of the village were slowly coming to life. In another half an hour he could leave.

He cheated, allowed himself one more visit. He needed it. Carefully he entered the one where they had been lying on John's bed catching their breaths, naked, sweaty, spent. John was covered in bruises after having taken a beating on a case, his body aching so that it had been hard to tell whether his moans were from pain or pleasure. Yet afterwards it had still been John who'd taken him in his arms and soothed him deeper, deeper into the postcoital bliss; pulling the duvet over them, embracing him. Neither of them slept, as they nestled in the calm; arms, legs wrapped around each other. As one. Perfectly comfortable, perfectly safe. Happy. Happy.

Sherlock tiptoed out of the memory, feeling refreshed and energised. Only 235 days. Piece of cake. Child's play. A bloody picnic.


End file.
